


Homefront

by romanticalgirl



Category: Hornblower (TV), Hornblower - C. S. Forester
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-07
Updated: 2013-04-07
Packaged: 2017-12-07 19:41:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/752293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/romanticalgirl/pseuds/romanticalgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>War is hell on the homefront too</p>
            </blockquote>





	Homefront

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to [](http://www.livejournal.com/userinfo.bml?user=nollivingman)[****](http://www.livejournal.com/userinfo.bml?user=nollivingman)for beta and to[](http://iansmomesq.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://iansmomesq.livejournal.com/) **iansmomesq** for inspiring, even if she had no idea she did it.
> 
> Originally posted 10-16-06

It started innocently enough.

He had stopped by with a copy of the Naval Chronicle, some tidbit on Captain Hornblower in its pages. He’d knocked on the door and waited, impatient at waiting, at being still. He shifted from foot to foot, the paper smooth against his hands when the door had finally opened. A small body launched itself at him, a tangle of arms and legs and solid weight that wrapped itself around the worn wool of his uniform and clung to him.

“Horatio! Stop it this instance.”

“Papa! It’s Papa!”

“No, child. No. Horatio.” Maria’s blunt fingers touched the child at the juncture of his neck and shoulder, the soft yet firm touch easing him away from Bush’s legs. She held the baby in her other arm, a bundle of pink wrapped in a white blanket worn to nearly yellow with so many hard washings, but something of its appearance told Bush the fabric was soft as eiderdown. She shook her head as the boy looked up at Bush then scurried behind her skirts, peeking out from behind her up at Bush’s face. “I apologize, Mr…Lieutenant Bush.”

“I apologize, Mrs. Hornblower, for intruding.”

“No intrusion at all,” She smiled softly, bouncing the baby as the pink face scrunched up as if to fuss. “Come in.”

He followed her through the door, unsure of what else to do. She was different from when he had last seen her, her body changed with the shift of marriage and childbirth. Her hips seemed wider, though her body thinner. He watched the boy, a reflection of his father, caught in her skirts, daring looks back at Bush as he walked.

“You look well, Mrs. Hornblower.”

“We are well, Mr…Lieutenant. Thank you.” She led him into the sitting room and gestured to a chair. Bush knew it was Hornblower’s chair and sat in it tentatively, perched on the edge of the cushion. “Can I get you tea? Or coffee?”

“Coffee would be, that would be fine, thank you.” He watched her settle the baby in a bassinet beside another chair, watched the little boy duck behind a low bench, playing with something, though his head would poke up, his dark, expressive eyes on Bush. Bush raised his voice slightly so that Maria could hear him. “I’ve brought you the Naval Chronicle. There’s a mention of Captain Hornblower in it.”

“That’s very kind of you.”

Bush closed his eyes as he did when he really listened, years of hearing the sails and lines through the hardest storm holding no sway over the training of four sisters, each clamoring for some bit of his attention. He got to his feet, glancing quickly at the children before going into the small kitchen and watching Maria as she stood there, staring at the coffee, the strong scent of it filling the room.

“Mrs. Hornblower?”

“He loves his coffee.” Bush approached her slowly, let his large hand rest on her shoulder. Maria turned to him, her eyes bright with tears. “He loves his coffee.”

“I know, Mrs….Mrs. Hornblower. I know.”

**

He returned a week later, stilted and stiff in his uniform. He had a bag of oranges for Maria and a rough hewn wood horse for the boy and a yarn doll he spent a few coin for. He’d fingered the coins for a long time, thinking about what else it could buy him – strong ale, a willing woman, a hot dinner – and then handed them over to the merchant.

Maria answered the door, her face flushed. He knew it was because he’d seen her tears as well as he knew he’d never see them again. He had watched her face shutter to him as she’d pulled away from their brief touch. She was a stronger woman than he’d given her credit for when he’d realized she’d snared Hornblower into marriage. Then he’d seen her as conniving and weak. Now he realized she had loved Hornblower from the start.

She, and not Hornblower, was the one doomed by this marriage.

He smiled at her and bowed his head in a quick nod. “Mrs. Hornblower.”

“Mr. Bush!” She smiled, somewhat tentatively, and stepped back. Her steps were hesitant, the questions she would not speak in her eyes and her body’s language. “What a surprise. You have more news of Mr. Hornblower?”

“I’m sorry to say I do not, Mrs. Hornblower. Though there are more ships due in tomorrow, perhaps news will come then. I will bring it, if you wish.”

“Of course,” she stepped further back, allowing him plenty of space to enter. He walked past her and waited as she shut the door. “I’ll be going away for a few days after that. One of my sisters is coming from Chichester, and I’m to meet her.”

“You have sisters?”

“Four of them.”

“My goodness.” She blushed after she spoke. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Bush. I meant no offense.”

“None taken.” He glanced around. “Are the children here?”

“Oh, of course. Yes. They’re taking a nap right now. Would you like a drink?”

He shook his head quickly. “No. No. Thank you.”

She flushed again and gestured him to her husband’s seat before settling opposite him. “If I might ask then, Mr. Bush, if there is no news of my husband, why have you come?”

“I upset you on my last visit. I wanted to apologize.”

Maria shifted slightly in her chair, turning her head away from him. Bush studied her profile, looking again for what Hornblower saw in her. Bush could see the things most men would see. She was built for motherhood with good hips and lush breasts, and her face, while not beautiful, was pretty and full of character. Her eyes were expressive, by turns sharp and wary then as bright as stepping from below into the blinding sun. But there was nothing in her that he could see that would draw Hornblower.

“You apologized before, Mr. Bush, and truly it is I who should apologize. You did nothing wrong.”

“I made you cry. And, while when I was a child, I reveled in making my sisters cry, I’ve refrained from the practice for many years now.” He smiled as she huffed a soft laugh, the threat of tears thickening the sound. “And I was never in the habit of making anyone who wasn’t family fall to tears.”

“I miss him.” She pressed her lips together and tears brightened her eyes and Bush saw it. What had captured Hornblower so readily. Whether he could know what it meant or not, whether he could feel it or not, Hornblower had recognized the depth of emotion, of love. “When he is away, Mr. Bush, I miss him.” He heard the qualifiers and knew they were something of a lie.

She missed him always, her voice and eyes and body said. He was never there with her completely, never away from the sea and his ship in his heart or his mind. She was a Navy wife and, worse still, she was married to a man who claimed the sea as his wife, and his bride as his mistress.

“I’m sure he is well.”

“He writes me letters that say nothing ever so earnestly.” She smiled and sniffed delicately, her handkerchief curved around her finger to hide the curve of her lips as the smile faded. “Tell me of your sisters, Mr. Bush.”

“They are much like Captain Hornblower’s letters, Mrs. Hornblower. Four of them talking non-stop, all of them saying nothing ever so earnestly.” He laughed and she started at the sound then let her smile free again. “They are many in number, and I often find myself surrounded, forced to surrender my colors to whatever plotting and planning they have devised in my long absences. The only mercy is that they are dependent on me and my wages for much, so they’ve not yet set about finding me a wife that I would…” He cut himself off and shook his head. “I find with four sisters, I have no need of a wife.”

“You can think of no use for a wife, Mr. Bush?”

“I can think of several uses for a wife, Mrs. Hornblower.” Her face flushed again, and he felt a strange pleasure in it, shifting in his seat as he watched her, watched the color fill in her pale cheeks and neck, the swell of her breasts at the open neck of her gown. “None of which I find are worth the hardship of being left while I run off to sea.”

“Perhaps if you met the right woman.”

“If I met the right woman, Mrs. Hornblower, I imagine that leaving her behind would be even harder.” He picked up the bag of gifts he’d brought and stood, offering them to her. “I should take my leave. A small token, for you. And the children.” He offered her a smile, and she took it, returning one of her own, though her eyes watched him. “Good day, Mrs. Hornblower.”

She nodded. “Mr. Bush.”

**

Bush fingered the edges of the paper with his thumb, feeling the sharp crease against the calloused skin. The writing was fine though the rough paper ate up the ink, leaving the precise edges of his name bleeding. He traced the curves of the letters then frowned, finally opening the seal and unfolding the letter.

He read the words, stilted and formal and written so perfectly. He could picture her bent over Hornblower’s desk in the corner, carefully lining her script, pondering over the correct wording. There was a mark, the final full stop of the letter larger than it should be, where the nub had clearly rested too long. He wondered what had drawn her away from the invitation, what had captured her so fully that she had not started again to make it perfect.

Or perhaps this was perfection in her world. So careful and exact until life stole her away from…

From what?

He read the short letter again, nothing more than time and place and niceties. Nothing personal, save that spread of ink. He stared at it for a long while, wondering what he would see if he closed his eyes, if the ink would take on life and shape and form. Shaking his head, he went down to the proprietor and came back to his room with pen and ink and sketched a reply in his rough hand, his improper spelling. He wondered at the proper amount of words to use to say yes, to say please. He sealed the envelope before he could change his mind, before he could press his pen to the paper and offer a bit of himself in return.

**

The door was open slightly, the rich, thick smells of beef floating through it. Bush felt his stomach rumble and closed his eyes, inhaling the scent of it on the air. Not salt beef and much better than whatever it was they had passed as food at the tavern last night. He pressed a hand to his stomach and felt the reactions, willing his body to behave in polite company.

“Are you sleeping with this man, Maria?”

“Mother! How dare you ask such a question!”

Bush stepped back, away from the door, from the raised voices. He reached for the knob, intending to pull the door closed, arrested at the sight of the boy, of Horatio sitting cross-legged on the floor, playing with the horse Bush had bought for him.

“You invite a man to dinner…”

“A man you’ve met, mother. A man who has served with Horatio before. He is a friend of my husband, and I am merely trying to show him the respect that any other Captain’s wife would show her husband’s former second in command.”

“You’re a married woman, Maria.”

“Yes, Mother. A married woman with two children and an absent husband who is trying to make the best of a bad si-situation. You are here. The children are here. Mr. Bush is a friend of my husband and has no family in the immediate area and I’m trying so very hard…” She broke off, her voice raised and sharp.

The boy looked up suddenly and caught Bush’s eye, tilting his head. His dark curls fell around his face and Bush was reminded sharply of the boy’s father. “Mama?”

“Yes, Horatio?”

Bush pulled the door shut carefully, wincing as it clicked in the latch. He took a deep breath and knocked, surreptitiously rubbing his palm against the seam of his pants, the other hand holding tightly to his hat. The door opened and he was bathed in a swirl of odors from the kitchen, from her. Beneath the heavy smell of beef and bread was a hint of flowers, of powder melted with perspiration. He nodded, his eyes going to the pulse of her neck, wondering what it would be like to press his nose there, smell her unadulterated and unadorned.

“Mrs. Hornblower.”

“Mr. Bush.” She smiled at him, and stepped back. The boy was behind her, still on the floor, still playing with the horse. “Please, come in.”

He nodded again and entered, allowing her to take his hat, his coat. He hesitated for a moment and met her eyes, seeing the sharp edge in the depths, wondering what had been said in those few moments behind closed doors. “How have you been?”

“Well. We’ve been well. How was your visit with your sister?”

“Far too long and far too short, as always. I should introduce you.”

Her pulse jumped and she looked away from him. “I do not think it would be so wise for me to meet your sisters, Mr. Bush.”

“Why not?” His fingers tingled and he ached to reach out, to touch her chin and turn her eyes back to his. He rubbed them against his thumb, pushing hard against the sensation. “Surely you’ll not punish them for me not befitting your rank.”

“My rank.” She laughed, and the sound was bitter until she cut it off shortly, her mouth pressing into a thin line. “I have no rank, Mr. Bush, and whatever honorific my husband carries, I assure you, it is not befitting me.” She shook her head and bowed it. “Excuse me. Please, make yourself comfortable. I should check on dinner.”

Bush followed her with his eyes until she moved out of the room, her skirts sweeping the floor with a soft rustle. He turned away and looked back at the boy, those wide dark eyes staring up at him. “You’re Horatio.”

He nodded and held up the horse. “Hotspur.”

Bush smiled and sat in Hornblower’s chair, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees to watch the boy play. “Hotspur was your father’s ship. Mine too.”

“Horse.”

“Yes. It’s a horse. And Hotspur is a good name for a horse. Your father, from what I understand, doesn’t like horses much.”

“Ships!”

Bush laughed and leaned back, unbuttoning his uniform jacket before leaning in again. “Yes. Your father likes ships.”

The boy got to his feet and scurried away, the horse lying abandoned on the floor. Bush picked it up, smoothing it with his thumb. It was a crude rendering, but sanded smooth as silk. He looked up from it as the boy returned, a wooden ship in his hands. He sat on the floor with it, making it bob and dip in the air. “Ship!”

“What ship?” Horatio’s face scrunched up in thought, wrinkles between his brows so familiar Bush sucked in a hot breath. He sank down onto the floor with the boy and held out his hands, letting him set it carefully in Bush’s grasp. “First ship?”

Horatio’s face slowly relaxed and he nodded, the suspicion at Bush seemingly displaced by his proximity, by his willingness to get down to the boy’s level. “Papa’s ship.”

“ _Atropos_?”

The boy shook his head and watched as Bush moved the ship through the imaginary water. He leaned in and pointed to the rough squares cut in the sides. “Cannon!”

“ _Renown_?”

“Horatio doesn’t talk about _Renown_.” Maria’s voice was soft as she watched them, leaning against the frame of the door to the kitchen. Bush glanced up at her and watched the expression in her eyes as Horatio reached out to take the ship from Bush. “He calls it the _Indy_.”

“ _Indefatigable_.” Bush nodded. “He served under Pellew.” He stopped, seeing that the names meant nothing to Maria, though he knew Pellew had attended their wedding reception. “He’s quite taken with the ships?”

“They sit outside our windows. They either bring his father in or take him away.” She shook her head, shaking off the melancholy that seemed settled on her shoulders. “They’re all he knows.”

“And horses.”

She laughed quietly. “I’m sorry. I’ve not yet thanked you for your generosity. There was no need.”

“It wasn’t about need or debt, Mrs. Hornblower.”

“Please, Mr. Bush.” She glanced down at her hands and then over to Bush. He watched the wisps of her hair shift in the warm air of the room, spreading out like ink. “Call me Maria.”

**

Dinner was a stilted affair with Maria’s mother glaring at her daughter for most of the course of the meal. Bush found himself, much as he did with his sisters, with little to say and littler still to do. He amused himself watching Horatio, seeing the child in the man he knew, the one that he let few see, and even Bush had only been offered glimpses, reflections in Kennedy’s smile.

“So, Mr. Bush.” Mrs. Mason’s voice cut through Bush’s thoughts like a saber and he turned his head to face her. “You sailed with Horatio on _Hotspur_. What have you been doing since?”

“I was lieutenant aboard _Temeraire_.”

Her mouth closed and her eyes widened and then she looked across at Maria, accusation in her eyes. “You fought with Lord Nelson.”

“I was at Trafalgar, Ma’am, yes.” He watched her cutting gaze and then turned his own to Maria. “As were many men. And there is still a war on.”

“How dare you, Mr. Bush…”

“I don’t dare, Ma’am. I simply state the truth. No one has greater respect for Nelson than I, and he is a hero, but we have not won the war, Mrs. Mason. Not yet. There are more heroes to be made, more heroes to die.” He reached out and set his hand on the table, his fingers grazing Maria’s wrist. “Your husband is a hero, Mrs. Hornblower.”

“Waiting to die a hero’s death, Mr. Bush?”

“Every man does his duty.” He felt Mrs. Mason’s eyes on him and shifted his hand away, turning his gaze to Horatio. “When I was a boy, my father would put me on his back and we’d race around the yard like wild horses.”

The boy’s eyes lit up and he turned to his mother, nearly bouncing in his seat. “Horse!”

“Mr. Bush, I could not ask…”

“I offered, Mrs. Hornblower.”

“Horse, Mama! Horse!”

Maria smiled at her son then turned her gaze to Bush, “I’ll get his coat.”

**

Bush swung the boy down from his shoulders, setting him at his mother’s feet, the shower of his laughter raining down on them both. Maria leaned down and kissed the boy’s dark curls then sent him into the house, her hand mussing his hair as he passed. She turned to Bush, her face flushed with the brisk air. “Thank you. He’s not had that much fun in so long.”

“I was happy to do it.” He shivered slightly and took his coat as she offered it, his hand brushing hers. He could feel her skin, soft and yet rough from hard work and living, feel her fingers against his. He wondered what his hands felt like to her, what they would feel like on her. “Thank you,” he cleared his throat and stepped back, pulling his coat on and taking his hat from her, “for dinner. Thank you.”

“Thank you, Mr. Bush, for coming. For…for everything.”

“If I am to call you…you should call me William.”

“If you are to call me Maria, did you mean to say?” Her eyes lit as she smiled. “You’ve yet to do that, Mr. Bush.”

“One of us must be the first.” He ran a finger carefully over the back of her hand, letting it rest briefly against the heavy weight of her wedding ring. “Maria.” She shivered slightly and he stepped away. “You should get in out of the cold.”

“It is not the cold, M…William.” He could feel the heat from her cheeks, could see the flash of fire in her eyes. “But you are correct. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.”

**

He had been seeing her everywhere – on the street, in the taverns, in his dreams – he was surprised to actually find her in front of him. She was standing at the market, a basket draped over her arm as she leaned in and haggled with the grocer. He watched her, coming to know the different flushes that suffused her skin by the way she held herself, by the flash in her eyes.

He waited until her transaction was completed, her stiff posture telling him she was not pleased with the outcome, then pushed away from the wall and approached her, doffing his hat as his shadow lay across her path. “Mrs. Hornblower.”

She looked up, her face changing as she caught sight of him. “Mr. Bush.”

“Where are the children?”

“With my mother. It’s easier when I don’t have them to look after here. So many merchants willing to do most anything to cheat an extra coin from you.” She sighed and touched her fingers to her lips, the movement bringing his gaze to them as well. “I should not say such things out loud. I apologize.”

“No need, I assure you.” He took the basket from her arm, his fingers grazing her sleeve. “May I walk you home?”

“Mr. Bush…” She glanced around them and then dropped her eyes, dropped her voice. “William…I don’t think it would be wise.”

“Your mother does not trust me?”

“My mother thinks you’re colluding with Bonaparte after your comments the other night about Lord Nelson.” She laughed softly. “Things are very black and white for her.”

“I know. Though I’d beg to differ and say it is either silver or gold.”

“You speak out of turn, Mr. Bush.” She reached for her basket, refusing to meet his eyes as he closed his hand over hers. Instead she stared down at his fingers, as he watched her, saw her breath catch, her chest hitch as he stroked them along her hands. “You speak ill of my mother.”

“I speak the truth, as you well know it. But I do speak out of turn. And I apologize.” He let his gaze fall to their hands as well. “Maria…”

“This is not proper, Mr. Bush. I spoke in haste the other night. It is not wise that we call each other by our Christian names and it is not…” she paused as he raised a hand and brushed back an errant curl from the side of her face. “This is not…” Her eyes closed as he tucked the curl back, letting his fingers graze over her cheek as his hand fell away. “I must go home to my children.”

“Of course.” Bush stepped back, sliding her basket off his arm. He held it out to her and watched her take it with trembling fingers. “As your husband’s former second in command, you must let me walk you home. See you safe.”

“Safe, Mr. Bush?” She looked up at him and her eyes were wide and knowing. There was no safety here between them. “It is broad daylight and I have nothing no man would wish to steal.”

**

Bush stood near the docks, inhaling the familiar scent of the sea. He closed his eyes, remembering the rise and swell of the ship beneath his feet, the wind on his face. It had been too long since _Temeraire_ , too long on land.

His legs rebelled as he shifted, moving instead with the roll of the distant waves. He shook his head, setting his mind to stores and ships, the feel of rope burning his hands rather than the soft skin of Maria’s fingers, the flushed heat of her cheek.

He cursed softly under his breath, pushing the thought of her out of his mind once more. The soft body he’d buried himself in last night had done nothing to banish her from his head, instead, he’d found too many unfamiliar words falling to his lips as he’d touched brunette curls and tasted full lips. Cursing again, he turned away from the sea, the wind whipping his queue harshly against his neck.

He headed back toward his lodging, the bite of cold in the air a relief against his too-hot face. His legs betrayed him again, the swell of his emotions turning him to port, his direction bearing toward the house he had no business steering toward. He stopped his walking, demanding his feet to obey his own command. He turned away from the rows of housing and resumed his walk away, back toward the docks and the call of taverns and whores.

“Horse!”

He glanced up, the familiar sound altering his course again. He nearly stumbled as Horatio ran into him, the small boy colliding with him. Bush reached down for him, lifting the boy up into his arms and smiling at him, though concern creased his forehead. “What are you doing out without your mother?”

“Horse!” Horatio held up the wooden horse in Bush’s face, galloping it before his eyes. Bush laughed and nodded, leaning back to avoid the wild movement at Horatio’s hands.

“Where’s your mother?”

Large brown eyes, so delighted and yet so serious gazed back at him. There was a hint of brightness in them as Horatio turned his head toward the docks where Bush had been heading. “Ship.”

“Oh.” He felt his breath catch, wondered if Hornblower had brought _Atropos_ back to Portsmouth. The thought of a ship held his lungs captive, though no more so than the thought of Maria lips parted for her husband, her hands touching Hornblower’s skin. He cursed silently, mindful of the boy’s attentions. “Your father is home?”

“Horatio?” Maria’s voice drifted toward them and Bush turned, fully expecting to see the glint of gold beside her. Instead he saw only her worried face, the fragile fall of hair scattered from her careful styling and her rushed movements, hurrying toward him with the baby clasped tightly in one arm. “Oh. Oh. Child.”

She turned to Bush as if seeing him for the first time. Her eyes widened and he stepped closer to her, instinct taking over as he shifted, swinging Horatio close to her. She closed her eyes for a moment and leaned into the boy, her heart in the slight shiver that trailed along her skin. He could picture them, the tableau they made, the four of them as family with a small house and two children to raise, a wife he came home to and dined with and took to bed each night. He reached out with his free hand and stroked the baby’s downy hair, his fingertips just brushing the fabric of Maria’s sleeve.

“Thank you for finding him, Mr. Bush. I turned my back for just a moment to speak with one of the men who had last seen Horatio and then when I turned back he was gone, and I…” She shook her head. “I was so afraid…”

His hand lifted, brushing her cheek with the back of his fingers. “I did nothing. He found me.”

“Still.” She shifted the baby in her grip, her gaze locked on her son.

Bush set the boy down. “Let me take the baby from you and you can assure yourself he’s fine.” He let Maria ease the child into his arms, her eyes torn between her son and Bush until he slid his arm along hers, drawing little Maria to his chest.

Maria bent down, fussing over Horatio, her voice stern yet soft as she admonished him. Bush watched her, arrested by the simple grace and movement of her gestures. Whatever doubts he’d had regarding Maria as a Captain’s wife - _Horatio’s wife_ \- there was the certainty of motherhood. She bowed her head, resting her forehead against her son’s before turning bright eyes up to Bush.

“You must let me thank you in some way.”

“I really did nothing.”

“You were there. You _are_ here.” She straightened and he watched the pain that flickered across her expression, the silent self-censure in her eyes as she realized what she’d said, what she’d implied. “Please, Mr. Bush, let me thank properly.”

Bush cleared his throat and nodded, stepping forward to slide Maria back into her arms. His hand cradled the baby’s head, brushing against Maria’s arm, the heavy swell of her breast as he handed her over. He caught his breath on the gesture, his heart stopping at the soft gasp that parted Maria’s lips.

He drew his hand back slowly, letting his fingers trail along her arm, his eyes watching their movement. Maria’s gaze followed them as well, her breath shaky as he reached the curve of her wrist tucked safely around Maria. His fingers slipped off the fabric of her dress to the skin and she shuddered slightly, her lips parting.

Bush looked up, met her eyes. “Dinner.”

Maria nodded then shook her head, her eyes troubled, clouded with veiled hints of something Bush could not read. “Dinner?”

His fingers curved around her wrist, this thumb stroking the pounding of her pulse. “As thank you.”

“Oh. Yes. Yes.” She nodded, her voice breathless, her eyes darting to his as he shifted closer, leaned into her. “Of course.”

“No sailor passes up an opportunity for a home cooked meal.” His legs betrayed him again, drew him closer still.

Maria looked up at him, a hint of a smile on her lips. “E-even one at the mercy of my mother?”

“A great many things can be forgiven with the right company.” He lifted his free hand and tucked away one of her errant curls. “Even your mother.” Maria’s eyes darted from his lips to his eyes then back again. Her lips parted as Bush wound another curl around his finger, rubbing the silken strands against his rough skin. He shifted again, closer still, hungry for a taste of her. His voice was low, rough and husky as her name rolled across his tongue. “Maria.”

“Mama! Horse!”

Maria jerked back, the hand that had grasped at Bush’s jacket pushing him away. She wrapped it instead around the baby, using the blanket to hide her trembling. “C-come, Horatio. We must get home.”

Bush swallowed hard, watching her with heat and longing burning inside him. He rubbed his finger and thumb together, wondering if rope or wind or salt water would ever wash away the feel of her hair against his skin. “Hold tight to his hand, Mrs. Hornblower.”

“Thank you again, Mr. Bush. Shall I…send an invitation? For dinner?”

“Whatever day is suitable for you.” He nodded and forced himself to take a step back, away from her. “My calendar is quite clear.”

“V-very well, Mr. Bush. Good day.”

He nodded again and managed to doff his hat. “Good day, Mrs. Hornblower.” He watched her hurry away, Horatio rushing after her amidst the wind and swirl of her skirts. “Maria.”

**

Bush splashed the cold water on his face, his eyes closed as he scrubbed at his skin. The mirror over the basin gave him a view of what he’d left behind in the bed, the sated flesh sprawled across the dirty sheets. The whore sat up enough to smile at him, her dark hair tumbling around her shoulders. “Name’s Tessie. Not Maria.”

He dropped his gaze and swiped the back of his hand across his eyes. He gathered his clothes and dressed, ignoring the soft laughter from the woman on the bed.

“Who is she? Sister? Best mate’s lady? Captain’s wife?” She laughed again as Bush reacted. “Oh, love. Captain’s wives never leave.”

“I don’t pay you to talk.”

“No. Suppose that’s not what you want my mouth for.” She smiled again and got to her feet, adjusting the fall of her skirts. “She love her Captain?”

“Not what I pay you for,” Bush snapped, his voice hard and sharp.

“Ah, but your time’s up, Lieutenant. You’re not paying me for anything.” She tapped him on the shoulder and leaned in. “Ask for Tessie next time, eh, love? You can call me Maria all you like so long as the rest of you’s busy getting your money’s worth.”

“There won’t be a next time.” Bush claimed his hat and turned toward the door. “You’re nothing like her.”

“All women are whores underneath, Lieutenant. You just have to find the right price. Bet hers was marriage.”

**

Bush watched Maria from his seat in the lounge, watched her hands move as she tucked both children into bed. She planted a soft kiss on the top of Horatio’s head then turned down the lamp. She turned in the shadows and Bush could feel her eyes on him, watching him as closely as he’d watched her.

He cleared his throat, offering her a smile. “Dinner was wonderful.”

“You’ve a strange definition of words, Mr. Bush.” She came into the lounge and sat across from him, folding her hands in her lap, her wedding ring catching the flickering lamplight. “Or wonderful has ceased to mean what I’ve always been told.”

He laughed and leaned forward, his glass loose in his hand. “Good food. Good company.”

“My mother will be thrilled to know you think of her as such. Or she might be further offended by your cheek.” She laughed softly. “You make her as angry as a spitting hen.”

“I have faced Captains far worse than your mother.” He watched her smile fade at the mention and cursed himself in his head. “There was one when I first went to sea. A grizzled old Captain made solely of rum and bad manners.”

“Oh?” She smiled in spite of herself, a blush staining her cheeks. “What was his name?”

“Tigh. Captain Tigh. Hated him. Thought sailors were nothing more than an impediment to his getting more rum.”

“Did you give up your share to him? Endear yourself?”

“No. Lord, no. I hid every time he walked by. Scurried up the rigging like a rat in the light. Won myself a reputation and advancement.”

“Fear has furthered you career, has it?”

“Fear began it, though I’ve come to find it an impediment lately. Sometimes you cannot be afraid.” He finished his drink, setting the glass on the table between them. “Or if you are, you have to push past your fear. Do what must be done.”

Maria licked her lips, watching as Bush stood, moving over to the sofa and sitting beside her. He rubbed her hand with the back of his finger, the brief contact bringing a soft hitch to her breath. “And what…what must be done, Mr. Bu…William?”

“I have no idea. I merely follow orders. Tell the gu…guns when to fire.” He moved his hand, taking hers in his and raising it to his lips. Maria turned slightly, her eyes on his as he lowered his mouth to brush against the skin of her fingers. Her breath caught again, her pulse fluttering at the base of her throat. “Maria…”

A soft sound filtered from the bedroom and Maria lowered her eyes. “You sh…should go, William. Mr…Mr. Bush. You should go.”

Bush watched his name on her parted lips and leaned in. He pressed a gentle kiss to her cheek, tasting powder and softness, the hint of the smells of their dinner, the hard burn of coffee grounds. Her breath caught in his ear and she sighed, as soft as his kiss and just as hungry.

Her voice was barely a breath. “William…”

Bush pulled away slowly, exhaling shakily. His hand held hers tightly, his fingers rubbing the pale, shining gold of her ring. “I should go.” He stood, releasing her hands reluctantly. Her smile trembled as her eyes followed him. “Goodnight, Maria.”

**

Bush opened the door of his room, his voice a rough growl against the early morning call. He had spent little time in his bed since leaving Maria a week ago, preferring instead to find himself in other beds, in other women, trying to erase the image of her from his mind. He jerked the door open. “What?”

“O-oh. Mr. Bush.”

“Mrs. Hornblower.” He glanced down the hallway then stepped forward, edging her away from his room. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“The…the owner told me which was your room. I…”

He took her by the elbow and steered her toward the stairs. “You mustn’t be here, Mrs. Hornblower. It’s not done. Not proper.”

She laughed, the sound slightly off-kilter. “None of this is proper, Mr. Bush. Not a moment of it.” She stopped in her tracks, refusing to let him push her another inch. “I need your help, Mr. Bush. My husband once told me that, if I needed help, I could go to you.” She eyed him seriously, challenge flashing in her gaze. “Did my husband not speak the truth?”

“Your…your husband spoke the truth, Mrs. Hornblower. However, I’m sure he had little thought of his wife visiting another man in his room.”

“I’ll wait for you downstairs then, Mr. Bush.” She started to turn and he stopped her with his voice.

“He would not make such a claim now, Mrs. Hornblower. He would not dare if he knew.”

“He spends much of his life in a place I cannot go, Mr. Bush, in a place he would not take me if he could. There is nothing for him _to_ know. And if there were…” She met his eyes and he nearly flinched at the knowledge, the pain in them. “If there were, I am not so sure he would care.”

“He loves you.”

“He is _married_ to me, Mr. Bush. I harbor no illusions beyond that, I assure you.” She forced a smile. “I’ll wait for you downstairs.”

He watched her go then hurried back to his room, finishing his morning ablutions and selecting his uniform with care. The weight of decision hung around his neck, as tight as the silk stock as he knotted it carefully. He descended the stairs, and stopped, watching the sunlight as it feathered over Maria through the dirty window, casting her in a milky gold.

“What is it that I can do, Mrs. Hornblower? To help you.”

She turned to face him, steely resolve etched in her expression. “I told you there was a merchant in the marketplace who has been less than honest in his dealings with me. He knows only that my husband is at sea and thus feels that he can cheat me out of the coin Horatio sends home. There is no one to whom I can lodge a complaint, so I’m asking you, if you would, to stand beside me in Horatio’s stead.”

“You wish for me to play the part of your husband?”

“I wish you to stand behind me, Mr. Bush, and let him infer from that what he wishes. It is not my responsibility should he deign not to ask after the man standing with me.” Her jaw was set, her eyes sharp.

“Ask me.”

“Pardon?”

“Do not lay the burden of your husband at my feet. You. Ask me.”

Maria looked at her hands and Bush watched them, the faint trembling, the spark of her ring in the late morning light. “Will you help me, Mr. Bush?”

His voice surprised him nearly as much as it did her. “No.”

“Oh.” She huffed a breath then snapped her mouth shut. His eyes held hers for a long moment and then she relented, nodding slightly and bowing her head before lifting her gaze again. “Will you help me, William?”

He closed his hand around the handle of the basket on the table in front of her and nodded, gesturing toward the door. “Of course.”

They walked beside each other, neither saying a word. Her back was stiff and straight, annoyance at having to ask for help, to ask _him_ for help obvious, but there was something beyond that in her eyes as she glanced sideways at him from time to time. Bush watched her, watched her gaze as it fell across him and realized, with a sudden start, that she wanted to be beside him. Her story was most certainly true, she would not lie to him, but there were perhaps other men she could ask, other men she could demand help from.

She wanted Bush beside her.

His breath felt lighter in his chest, his heart rushing to the beat of the wheels on the cobblestone streets. They moved into the market place, Maria wending her way through the stalls, stopping here and there to pick up a few things and place them in her basket. Bush kept close, knowing as she lifted her chin that they were approaching the merchant he was here to intimidate.

Bush could see the sly smile on his face as he spied Maria, the look of a well-fed cat sleek on his features. Bush let a laugh escape his lips as Maria approached the man, her basket over one arm, her free hand clasped over the handle, her wedding ring bright.

“Mrs. Hornblower.” The merchant nodded, his darkened teeth snaggled in the dark cavern of his mouth. “Come for beef?”

“I have.”

“I’m afraid it’s a bad lot, but all I have. It’s hard to get these days. Price is expensive.”

“Is it.” Maria straightened, a smile of her own matching his as Bush stepped up behind her. He let his hand rest very clearly against Maria’s back, his body close to hers. “Hello, William.”

Bush fought against his body’s reaction to the soft sound of his name on her lips, dropping his gaze quickly to her to offer her a small, private smile. _For the benefit of the ruse_ , he assured himself, _flying false colors_ , though nothing in the promise of his expression was false. Maria flushed at his intense gaze then turned her attention back to the merchant.

His eyes were narrowed. “Home from the sea?”

“For a short while. Looking for a taste of something other than salt beef.” He tapped the table with a strong finger then spread his large hand on the surface, his other hand spanning along the small of Maria’s back. “Mrs. Hornblower tells me you’re the man we need to see.”

Bush leaned back as the man’s gaze went from Bush to Maria and then back again. Relaxing into a smile, Bush shifted his weight, his hand settling more firmly against Maria’s back, his thumb tracing a slow line along her spine. “As I was telling Mrs. Hornblower, the beef’s not the best.”

“Well then, we’ll settle for a lower price.”

“We’re short on supply.”

“Really? Your wares seem well stocked from where I’m standing. I would hate to think you would cheat the wife of one of His Majesty’s men. These are hard times for us all, but none so much as the women we leave behind to fend for themselves.” Bush rapped his knuckles on the table. “The best that you have. For a reasonable price.”

“As I said…”

“And as I said, or perhaps did not, I have stocked ships with victuals for more years than I’m sure you’ve been selling beef or whatever you pass for it, and I know the price and I know the pay and I know exactly how much of Mrs. Hornblower’s money you’ll receive and I’m quite sure of how much we’ll get in return.” There was a hard note of command in his voice, belied by the gentle stroke of his thumb on Maria’s back. “I have stood by Nelson, my friend. When a man such as he can die, men of lesser value should question their worth. Don’t you think?”

“Sovereign.”

Bush glanced at Maria and found himself caught in her eyes as she gazed up at him, her breath heavy through parted lips. He stilled his hand at her back and she blinked rapidly. “I’m sorry, William. Did you say something?”

“A sovereign.”

“Oh. Yes. Of course.” She freed the coin from her purse and handed it to Bush, his large hand dwarfing hers. He rubbed it with his thumb then waited as the merchant wrapped the beef, mumbling softly under his breath. Bush took the package from him and hefted it in his hand before placing it in Maria’s basket and handing over the coin.

“You do your country proud,” Bush tipped his hat to the merchant. “So many men would find themselves taking advantage of ladies left alone.” He drew Maria’s basket off the table and handed it to her, his other hand still against her back, warm from the heat of her. “Come, Maria.”

She fell in step with him, her chest rising and falling irregularly as he steered her, his hand firm in the small of her back. They moved through the market toward her house and she gave a soft laugh. “Next time he will cheat me far worse than ever before.”

“He won’t dare.”

She stopped and looked up at him. “You were wonderful.”

“Sailors rarely listen to kind, soft spoken words.”

“You never raised your voice.”

“Command is not how loud you are, but how much you know you’re right. Or how much everyone is frightened of you.”

“You don’t frighten me.”

“You frighten me, Maria.” He lifted his hand and brushed the back of his fingers across her cheek, stepping closer.

She swallowed hard, her eyes searching his. “I should go. The children…They…they were not feeling well this morning.”

“Oh?” He watched her lips, tasted her breath on the air as they parted.

“Summer colds, I’m sure.”

“You should take care,” he whispered, his hand turning, his palm against her skin, his thumb tracing the curve of her cheek. “Mind that you don’t catch cold.”

She lifted her face, her eyes intent on his. Her lips trembled as she closed her eyes, leaning into his hand. “I cannot imagine ever being cold again.”

Bush’s breath halted in his chest, hard and heavy and full, as he leaned in, parted lips grazing over hers. He felt her breath stop and then start again, racing with the speed of her heart, matching the pounding of his own pulse as she pulled back.

Her eyes were wide and she raised a hand to her lips, catching the soft words that fell against her fingers. She shook her head and whispered his name, turning quickly and rushing away, her basket clattering against the cobblestones at his feet.

**

Bush stood outside the door, the basket held tight in his hands. He could feel the wicker weave of it cutting into his hands as he closed his eyes, willing his heart to slow, his breathing to steady. Inhaling sharply, he raised one hand to knock, words and anticipation thick in his throat.

The door opened and Maria stood there, her eyes centered on Bush’s chest. “Mr. Bush. I don’t think it wise that you…pay us call any longer.”

“I have your basket.”

“Yes. Yes, of course.” She nodded, but made no move toward it. “Thank you.”

“Maria…”

“You mustn’t call me that. You cannot.” She glanced back into the quiet house then stepped into the entryway, crowding Bush in the small space. He stepped back to allow her room, then forward to close the distance between them. “You must go, Mr. Bush.”

“William,” he urged her, leaning in to brush his lips against hers. “You must call me William.”

“We mustn’t.” She shook her head even as he captured her lips in a kiss, tasting the sweetness of her tongue, the hint of mint and sweet tea that lingered there. “Oh.” She sighed and surrendered, letting him command the kiss, stealing her tongue into his mouth and reveling in the soft push of it against his own.

“Maria.”

“William.” She shook her head more forcibly and pulled back, tears bright in her wide eyes. “William.”

“Maria. Please, Maria.” He kissed her again, his hand slipping into her hair, threading through the tangle of curls. She gasped against his lips, her own hand raising to settle on his chest over his heart. He broke away, breathing her in. “Maria.”

“No.” Tears spilled down her cheeks and she pulled away, putting distance between them as she back against the door. “No. We mustn’t. We _can’t_. I have children. I have…I have a husband. A husband I love…I c…cannot. We…we cannot. William…I…” She shook her head and swung the door open behind her, disappearing into the house in a swirl of skirts and warm air.

Bush released a shuddering breath and bowed his head, slumping back against the wall for a long moment before setting her basket before the door and turning to take his leave.

**

The message found him by accident in a whore house. He read news of Hornblower’s exploits in a discarded chronicle, the words blurred by spilled drink and his own intoxicated state. He had read it four times before it tumbled through the rum into sense and then his breath had caught. It meant nothing to anyone, not that Hornblower would return, but the chance was there. Bush did not think on the desire that surged through him at the thought of seeing her again, only knew that he had to, that he needed a moment with her before every last chance fell away.

He stopped by his rooms and cleaned up as best he could, though no water seemed capable of washing away the scent of cheap rum and cheaper sex, the sallowness of his skin. He unfastened his queue then rewound it, pulling the hair tight before letting it lay against the collar of his uniform. He brushed the dark blue wool and raised his chin, admonishing himself silently. This was not courting.

He walked slowly to the house, standing in the entryway for a few moments. The familiar smells were absent as he stood there, the house radiating a stillness that sent a shiver of foreboding down Bush’s spine. He closed his eyes and shifted the new copy of the _Chronicle_ in his grip then knocked, bracing himself to see her. She would be different, he reminded himself. She would be less what he remembered, his loneliness-induced need and desire a mere shift of time and place and circumstance.

The door opened slowly and Maria stood there and his breath caught. Her curls were flattened against her forehead, dank and stringy. Her eyes were hollow, unseeing. He reached out to her, his hand against her cheek, his thumb stroking her skin, feeling the warm dry touch of it. Less than he remembered. And so much more. “Maria.”

She didn’t give way, didn’t lean into his touch. She seemed not to feel it at all as she blinked, recognition finally sparking in her eyes, though the knowledge brought no life to them. “Mr. Bush.” She gave a soft laugh, completely without humor, without joy. “Do you see what we’ve done?”

He looked past her into the house, the veil of sickness that hung over the rooms. “The children?”

“Are sick. They’re sick. They’re dying.” She laughed again, the sound bitter with recrimination. Her voice, when she spoke was husky with emotion. “Do you see what I’ve brought down on my sweet, innocent babies?”

“Maria,” he whispered, pressing his hand more firmly to her cheek. She closed her eyes, leaning against it for a moment, and he felt the trembling that seemed to consume her. He caught his breath, wanting to draw her into his arms, denied the chance as she slapped his hand away.

Tears stood in her eyes as she looked him over and Bush wondered what she was looking for, wondered if she found it in what she saw. “And what will Horatio say when I tell him? When I tell him what I’ve done? What I’ve done to our poor, poor babies?”

Bush exhaled shakily and drew his hand back, tucking both in the small of his back and clasping them there, fighting to stand firm in the rolling of the ground beneath his feet. “You needn’t tell him. It is enough…it is enough that they’re sick, Maria.”

She shook her head and backed away, stepping into the dim greyness of the house. “My name…my name is Mrs. Hornblower.” She pressed her lips together, her eyes glancing across his for the briefest of moments. “Good day, Mr. Bush.”  



End file.
